Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

“The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.” — Art of Quotation

The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us. Wallace Stevens, poet, “The Relations Between Poetry and Painting”, 1951

via “The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.” — Art of Quotation

“Well you get on your feet / And out on the street / Singing power to the people” — Art of Quotation

song quote from Power to the People, 1971, songwriter: John Lennon “Power To The People” Power to the people Power to the people Power to the people Power to the people Power to the people Power to the people Power to the people Power to the people, right onSay you want a revolution We […]

via “Well you get on your feet / And out on the street / Singing power to the people” — Art of Quotation

ABANDON LOVE, by Joanne Rowe

So rich man you think you’re gonna survive?
Leaving the rest of us to die.
Buy your ticket to outer space,
watch the rest of us spinning in space.
You measure time by your own insignificant place

Mother Earth is starting to wake
We can feel her moving – Under our feet
Dancing but nobody is watching

She is screaming in the whirlpools of abandon love,
Drowning in the pools of blood,
Crying in the dirty rain,
In the clamour of the wind and rain,
how many lives have fallen?

We have rend her garments –
Emptying out her oceans
leaving her in disgrace,
and just plain destroyed this place.

With our lust for power and greed to have ever more,
Lies and deceit riding on the backs of the poor,
leaving them to eat dirt while
using our abandoned pets as live bait.

Oh all for the good life,
for we are gonna have a good time.
No one’s manning spaceship earth
to busy fighting and dying
while we are spinning out of control.

Oh sweet love divine
where do we go from here
oh sweet love divine
where do we go from here.
You seem to have abandon this place

For why complain –
we are riding on the crest of sensation,
oh for we all have a good life,
oh sweet love divine

Gaia is opening up the book of change
bringing forth massive amounts of
anger, sadness and despair
For we have abandoned her
Now chaos sets the order of the day.

And when the morning sun has risen –
I will walk outside this world of dust
Watching
Mother Earth shed
her garment of expression,
awakening the deep strata of my soul
and sets it dancing with my shadow wondering,
where we will go from here?

After the tears – a gentle rain falls
One can sense a presence
to a life’s sustaining ocean
of a love that is freely given,
not bound to any one person or thing

Asking mankind to wear a coat of compassion
To hold on to what is good, —- All you need is love
For All Life!

In gratitude we wait for a new day to begin.
poem written by Joanna Rowe

“Be the change that you want to see in the world.”
Mohandas Gandhi

Live Dream Love http://thedowsersdaughter.blogspot.com/
joanny

The corona quiet, by Alison Hramiak

So quiet the land –

the lanes, the paths

the leafy glades.

Where in the air

viral shadow evades

surgeon scalpel blades.

Corona cripples cursed confused countries,

Crying out for medicine and medicals.

Rage against a parasite

That Earth itself has sent.

Covid 19 coursing, carousing, carelessly carefree

through the blood of this us –

This dominant species.

Powerless to prevent

As we carelessly collectively collect on corners.

Will we die of ignorance?

Or heedlessness ?

And as smoke rises from the ashes

of what is left of us

like a

mad mocking double helix

of the virus

that claimed

us…

How we will move on?

© Alison Hramiak

23rd March 2020

Home, by Cecilia Morales

I remember the clear blue skies
the chilly rainy days
the cool October winds signalling the end of the school year
the cicadas crying for rain
the butterflies bringing spring on their wings
the ancient green giant watching over us
his warmth barely contained under rocky dark blankets.

I remember the sleepy towns
our hideout in the foggy mountains where I said ‘I love you’ for the first time
and the wild waves we used to ride on the weekends
our skin angry and red and salty and peppered with dark sand.

I dream of many faces
all of them smiling as they pass by
golden brown, kissed by the sun
infinitely patient at my silences, my anger, my disappearing acts.

I hear their laughter as we walk together on dirty sidewalks
passing by tall walls lined with broken glass
and barbwire
pretending to ignore the vague black threats tagged on doors
and the suffocating hand of uncertainty behind the smog
wondering what safety even feels like
wondering which one of us will be next
performing death in the newspapers
under white sheets
because what else is there to feel
other than fear and disgust?

I am haunted by her sunny smile clouded by the plastic bag around her head
by the bullet that stole his eye
by the ghouls that drove her away from home
by the corpse I stumbled upon on my way to the gym
by the crowds cheering wildly at the emperor’s cries for blood
by the deafening hatred making us turn against one another
devouring each other on our way out.

By Cecilia Morales – twitter.com/mulberryink

Originally published at https://notesmetro.substack.com

Feed the Wolf, by Ben Hramiak

Weather is bitter,
sitting on chair, smoking.
Pipe allows small, dull
Embers to be spewed forth.
Tiny specs of dancing light
Hurt my eyes. Wince at them.
Think of spouse, thoughts
turn to her without
clothes. Berate self
inwardly and outwardly.

Frown, chunter, growl.
Grit teeth, teeth turn to fangs.
Don’t question this.
Know what will happen.
Welcome it,
welcome the fur and
claws, the tearing of
my muscles.

Wait in the dark for her,
laugh to myself – a growling cackle
escapes my newly formed maw.
Don’t worry about the mess I made.
Will deal with it later.

Sensory overload: smell
a hundred thousand
different flavours dancing
along the air. Meat, sweat, dust,
old paper from old books, smoke –
the smoke burns my nose,

I wince at it.
Hear her car enter the driveway
like a boulder being
dragged along the ground.
Her key clatters through the lock,
her shoed feet clomp along the carpeted floor.
I grin to no one in particular – frenzy brings with it an invigoration –
and wait in anticipation, claws scraping the arms
of my armchair – leather ripping to reveal the
woollen innards.

The feelings of lust mix
with something… older.
I salivate, my thoughts turn red
for a fleeting moment. She enters the room and gasps.
Tall, business suit, brown hair.
Sensible. Picture her without clothes again,
begin to grin even wider. Brain barely
Forming words, mouth nearly incapable of
Making sounds other than growling.
Everything is red.

The history of the cubicle — An unknown poet who sings to himself

Every knock on the door Like a fly Sticking in my throat When there was another knock on the door My muscles have been cut The Knock on the door like a sharp knife for me I was surrounded by knocks at the door The knocks would not stop If you completely ignore the […]

via The history of the cubicle — An unknown poet who sings to himself